


Mech in Shining Armor 2.0

by thekumquat



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe, Mentions of dubious consent, Minor Violence, Prostitution, physical assault, where there's no war and everyone goes about their regular dramatic robot lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-11-19 02:04:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11303481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekumquat/pseuds/thekumquat
Summary: Several years ago I wrote a fic that became the most popular thing I've ever written. It wasn't my best writing, and given how many people liked it I always felt like I should have worked a little harder. So I did. This is the same basic plot with the same characters, but better. Hopefully.Updates every Sunday.Jazz is a prostitute, left for dead. Prowl rescues him. Jazz doesn’t trust him. Prowl wants to help. Jazz might be falling in love with him, just a little.  And that's the least of Jazz's problems.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The original fic, should you choose to read it, can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/709029/chapters/1310116

A storm had come to Tyger Pax. It was something out of myth; Primus himself had sent it to cleanse the city of its sins. Rain pounded against buildings.Thunder roared, shaking windows. Wind whipped down the streets, throwing sheets of rain into the face of anyone foolish enough to be caught outside. Few people dared. The city could have been empty. The streets and sidewalks stood in eerie silence; doorways and windows shuttered.

But it was beautiful. The water rushing through the gutters had swept away garbage and dirt. The buildings shone like jewels. As the last thing Jazz might see before he died, it was pretty good.

The mech shifted, trying to drag himself a little further into the shadow of the dumpster he had collapsed against. It was hard, with only one good arm and numbness creeping up his legs. He suspected that some of the dents had gone so deep they'd crimped wires. Steelwing had been thorough in his beating. 

"Shoulda called him Steelfist," Jazz mumbled, and hiccuped a laugh at his own joke. Energon trickled from a cut in his mouth, down his chin. How he'd managed to even run this far in his condition, he wasn't sure. He didn't even know where he was -- fear had driven him down sideroads and corners, deaf to any though but _escape_ .

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Life had been hell, but at least it had been a life. Now it was all gone, thrown away in the few moments it had taken to throw a punch.

He could feel stasis lock creeping up on him. He considered fighting it, but what was there for him now? If he survived, where could he go? Not back to the brothel, where Steelwing would find him again. And the brothel had been his last chance. He had nowhere else to go. No other way to make a living.

Death might be better.

Jazz glanced down at his arm. Energon dripped from his arm and mixed into the rain water. Steelwing had managed to rip the big cable there. The sight of the torn wire glinting in the light of a nearby sign made him shiver, nausea threatening to overwhelm him.

His vision began to go static, edges blurring and lights haloing. He shuttered his optics. The feeling of the rain and the ground beneath him became distant sensations. Even the bitter tang of his own energon in his mouth faded. His hearing stayed sharp as ever, and he was glad. The last thing he would hear would be the rain. He'd always liked the sound of rain.

Rain and...something else. Something heavy, but too close and too regular to be the thunder overhead.

  _Tap, tap, tap, tap._

Footsteps, he realized. Steelwing. His spark froze in his chassis and his optics onlined. The world was still grey and indistinct, but fear had cleared his mind. Everything was too bright, too close, too real. He wanted it to fade away again. He didn't want to feel what was about to happen. If Jazz had to die tonight he wanted it to be peaceful, painless. He tried to stand, but he was frozen in place. A dark shape framed by wings blotted out the light. A whimper slipped from his vocalizer and he bit down hard on his lip. He would not beg. Not for this monster. He would not. He would die with the last shreds of his dignity intact.

Jazz felt more than heard the rumble of a voice--

  _That's the last mistake you'll ever make, shareware._

The shadow knelt over him. No matter how hard Jazz cycled his optics, he couldn't make them focus. The voice kept speaking, low and soft. He couldn't hear malice in the tone, but Steelwing was terrifyingly cold, even when he'd tried to kill. A hand pressed down on his shoulder. He tried to throw it off and couldn't. The touch was gentle.

"It's okay," the voice said. "It's okay; I'm not going to hurt you."

It wasn't Steelwing. He didn't recognize the voice, but it didn't matter. It wasn't Steelwing.

"Can you hear me? Can you move?"

The fear vanished and with it, the last of his strength. He slumped over, only to be caught and lifted up as easily as if he weighed nothing at all.

"I've got you."

As if someone flicked a switch, the world went out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I would update this on Sundays, but as it's Fourth of July weekend, I'm going to be very busy this weekend. Plus last week's chapter was super short.

Jazz was awake, but he didn’t want to online his optics. Doing that meant getting up, and getting up meant beginning the drudgery of his everyday life.

Wake up, stare at ceiling, hate life, get up, wash, morning refuel, hate life, wash, hate life, buff out the marks from the night before, wash, wax, resist the urge to wash again…

Might as well get it over with.

He onlined his optics, was almost blinded by sunlight shining on white walls, and snapped them off again. This was not his room. This was not anywhere in the brothel. The walls there were a miserable dark red, the paint chipped and the lights dim.

His spark whirled in his chest. Okay. Okay. Stay calm. Don't panic. Where are you?

White walls. Hospital? No sounds of voices or walking feet or medical equipment; no sharp smells of disinfectant. Jail cell? No. Berth too soft, walls too clean.

He tried to unscramble his memories of the night before. He'd been in an alleyway, bleeding out, ready to return to the Well. Then a gentle voice and gentler hands had lifted him up and carried him away. He onlined his optics again, slowly this time. Squinting in the sunlight, he could make out the skyline of one of Tyger Pax's classier districts. He tried to roll over and winced as every part of him that could protest, did. Loudly. With great care, he sat up, making sure not to put any weight on his injured arm.

He was in a bedroom. It was tastefully decorated, white with a few black accents and artistic, minimalist decorations. Fancy, but it felt...unlived in.  There were no personal touches, no pictures or paintings or any of the clutter that came with occupying a space. All the furniture matched.  Like someone had recreated a picture from a catalogue.

Across the wall from the bed was a large mirror. Jazz caught a look at himself and grimaced, then flinched as a cut on his lip plating stretched. Injuries he hadn't even realized he'd had were now soldered closed, shining brightly against his cheap paint. He checked his arm. The tear in the large cable had been expertly repaired, but moving it made his whole arm seize up. It would be weeks before his system integrated the new cabling with the old.

And the dents were gone. Not just the big ones. The little ones around his hips that came from interfacing night after night were also gone. Jazz rarely bothered to fix them unless they were too large to go unnoticed. It was a futile task, since he got them all back again every night.

Jazz shivered. It didn't  _feel_  like anything...unpleasant had happened while he was out, but all the same...The thought of someone putting their hands all over his hips and his thighs while he was unconscious, even if they had done it to fix him up, made his fuel lines go cold.

The door opened. Jazz shot to his feet and almost collapsed, his optical sensors going black as his system struggled to adjust to the sudden motion. He lurched around and put his back to the wall as his vision cleared. A black and white mech stood in the doorway.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he said. His voice was a pleasant baritone, one Jazz recognized. This was the mech who had saved him the night before.

"Who are you?" Jazz asked in a confident but unthreatening tone of voice. This mech was bigger than he was, built sturdily with broad shoulders and chassis. Jazz saw now why he'd mistaken the mech for a flier -- he was Praxian, and his door wings were set slightly higher than was usual.

"My name is Prowl. I found you on the street last night. You were in a bad way, so I brought you home to patch you up." He gestured to the berth. "Please, lay back down. You're not well enough to be up and about yet."

Jazz didn't move.

"Right," Jazz said. "You bring a lot of strays home, or did I just get lucky?"

Prowl's wings twitched and he frowned.

"No, it's not something I do regularly. However, I pride myself on not being the sort of mech who sees someone bleeding to death in the street and does nothing. I brought you   _here_  because I knew the hospital might not be very...benevolent to someone like you."

Prowl knew what he was.  This mech wanted something; everybody always wanted something in return. If Jazz was lucky, the mech was a creep. If he was unlucky, Prowl was a serial killer, and Jazz was going to end up as a statistic on a police report.  

Prowl noticed his discomfort.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Prowl said. Jazz resisted the urge to roll his optics.

"Sure thing, total stranger who brought me into his home, I believe you." Sarcasm dripped from every word. Bad move. Not a good idea to antagonize the unknown mech who had him in his power. 

"Fair enough," Prowl said, to Jazz's surprise. He reached into his subspace and pulled something out. He tossed it to Jazz, who caught it easily.

It was a badge. Prowl was a police officer. Jazz swallowed, throat going tight. Prostitution was technically legal on Cybertron, but that did not stop people from looking down on it. Everyone knew pleasure bots were bad news, morally bankrupt and two steps away from outright criminal behavior at all times. The police couldn't arrest you for interfacing for credits, but they could be   _very_  inventive when it came to finding things they could arrest you for.

"Sergeant-at-Arms Prowl, at your service," Prowl said. Jazz once again did not roll his optics. _At his service._  What a joke. Prowl was watching him expectantly. Jazz considered whether or not it was worth it to lie.

"Jazz," he said at last, aiming for and landing at least within the vicinity of casual.

"I realize how this looks. Believe me. I promise you I only wanted to help."

"Right. And you were just  _helping_ when you got your hands all over me."

Prowl jerked, startled. When Jazz gestured to the un-dented plating at his hips, Prowl's optics went wide.

"No!" he said, aghast, then checked himself. “I assure you that was not my intention. I apologize for any discomfort. It didn’t occur to me that...well. I wasn’t trying to do anything untoward.

Untoward! Who even  _talked_ like that? Jazz would bet every credit to his name that Prowl used "whom". Then he sobered. It was pretty clear what was going on here. Prowl had seen an opportunity to get himself a personal pleasurebot, and he'd taken it. It wasn't the first time Jazz had heard of this sort of trick. Rescue some poor bot down on their luck, treat them nice, get them indebted to you, keep them trapped because they had nowhere else to go. Do all the terrible things you want and you don't have to pay for it or worry about them going to the police. Who would believe a buymech? Worse, who would take the word of a buymech over a police officer?  

Or a noble.

Jazz decided to play it careful and see where it went. Wait until he had healed up a bit before he took off. He'd be polite and respectful, saying nothing that could be taken as a flirtation. Keep his guard up. Show no weakness. He remembered his first day in the brothel, the older mech who had taken him aside, digging his fingers into his arm plating to make him listen.   _Show no weakness_ .

"Alright," Jazz said, putting on a smile. “And thanks for the save. I appreciate it.”

Prowl smiled, looking a little pleased, but not smug, as Jazz might have suspected.

"There's a washrack through that door," the mech said, gesturing. "And clean coverings for the bed in the closet."

Jazz looked back at the berth and winced. Soft coverings for berths were pricy, and Jazz had left this one covered in grime and energon. Prowl had done his best to clean Jazz up, but he had at least realized that a really in-depth washing of an unconscious mech would be going too far.

"Don't worry," Prowl said. "It's seen worse."

Jazz's head snapped up, eyebrow ridges raised high. Prowl's wings jinked slightly, a restrained but definite sign of embarrassment.

"May I have my badge back?" he asked, changing the subject remarkably ungracefully for someone so stoic. Jazz tossed the badge to him. 

"You should rest," the officer said. He reached into his subspace and pulled out a cube of energon. He placed it on the table beside the berth. "Let me know if you need anything."

The mech turned to leave and stopped.

"The door locks on the inside," Prowl said, meeting Jazz's gaze. "This is the only key."

He set the access card next to the energon cube, and left. That was unexpected. Could this guy actually be what he claimed to be?

No. That was ridiculous. This was clearly just to get Jazz to let his guard down. All the same, he limped his way over to the door and locked it. There was always the chance that Prowl had a second key, but it still made Jazz feel better.

The washrack was heavenly. Jazz stood under the spray for a long time, head tilted up, optics offline, letting the heat wash over him. He didn't have to rush to get ready for another client or because someone else was in line. He let the water wash away the stress and worries. Let the outside world wait, just for a little while.

When he began to fall asleep on his feet, he started to wash. It was a little tricky, since he still couldn't bend his arm and most of his body was still aching from the beating, but Jazz didn't let that stop him from scrubbing down every inch he could reach. When he was washed and dried, he returned to the bedroom, stripped off the filthy sheets, and left them in a neat pile by the door.

He picked up the energon cube and sniffed it. It smelled fine, but he wouldn't put it past anyone in Prowl's position to put something in it. Something to knock him out, or maybe drugs to get him hooked, a leash Prowl could hold. He dipped a finger into it and tasted a drop. Nothing. Midgrade, nicer than he usually got, but no sign of anything unusual.

Jazz drank it down, tumbled onto the berth, and was out in seconds.

 

 

When Jazz woke up again, it was to a soft knock on the door. The sun had almost set, leaving dark shadows stretched across the room. Jazz felt the familiar drop in his spark. Sunsets had stopped being beautiful when they came to mark the arrival of his clients. He sat up, still slowly, still aching, and shuffled to the door. Prowl wasn't there, but there was a stack of energon cubes. Jazz took them, locked the door, and drank greedily.

Finished, he stacked the cubes on the side table. He could have thrown them out, but the unnatural tidiness of the room made him feel rebellious. It was possible Prowl had taken all the valuable and personal items out of the room, not wanting to leave them with a stranger, but somehow Jazz didn't feel that was the case. What kind of person could stand to live such an empty life? Even Jazz had made his tiny room in the brothel his own.  

Jazz could have used more rest, but he was nocturnal. Usually he'd be getting ready for his first client of the night by now. When was the last time he had a night with nothing to do?

The sun finished setting; the room went dark. Jazz flicked on the side table light. He jiggled his leg, nervously. He drummed his fingers. He could leave the room, but he didn't want to talk to Prowl again. He still didn't know what to make of the mech.

Jazz's optics flicked to the side table drawer. Hmm.

He told himself it was self-preservation, not nosiness,  that had him open up the drawer. An open packet of energon candies -- who would have thought Prowl the kind of mech to eat snacks in bed? A few spare credit chits and a packet of pain-relief chips, prescription strength. That was definitely a sign that Prowl hadn’t cleaned the room out. No sane mech would leave money or drugs in the same room as an unsupervised buymech. Fortunately for Prowl, Jazz wasn’t an addict, and he’d managed to hold on to some of the ethics of his old life.

He wandered into the bathroom and began to poke around in the cabinets. It became clear that the unnatural emptiness of the bedroom was a symptom of  _insanity_ .

 _Everything_  was tidy. Beyond tidy. Bottles of polish lined up with military precision, spare coverings and drying cloths folded so tightly and precisely they might have been stolen right out of a store display, the few datapads on a shelf laid out perfectly straight in alphabetical order by author and subject. Jazz rearranged them; again his quiet rebellion.  

There was only one thing entire room that made Jazz  really nervous: a cabinet in the far corner of the room. It was about Jazz's height, narrow, double-doored, and locked. That was suspicious. Serial killer suspicious.There was nothing he could do about it but keep his guard up even higher.

The murmur of a voice outside the door distracted him from his examinations. He pressed his audial to it, but couldn't make out the words. With great care, he undid the lock and slid the door open just a crack.

Somewhere down the hallway, Prowl was talking.

"No, nothing's wrong. I have a lot of personal time saved up, I thought I'd use it." A pause. Prowl was on the comm with someone. "Why does everyone keep assuming I'm sick? I'm  _fine,_ " Prowl said irritably.

Another pause.

"Three or four weeks. Possibly longer; I'll keep you updated." Wearily, Prowl said "No, Smokescreen, I'm not dying. Yes, I promise. Do  _not_  cry."

Muffling a laugh, Jazz quietly closed the door and locked it again.  

Bonded to the job. Probably worked on his days off. Mechs like that tended to believe in justice and the spirit of law. They tended not to be murderers or kidnappers. He’d still play it safe, but it was a few points in Prowl’s favor all the same. It almost balanced out the locked cabinet. Investigation exhausted, Jazz stretched out on the bed and watched the flickering lights of Tyger Pax through the window until he fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The white minimalist decor extended to the rest of the apartment. In the bedroom, it had been classy, if a little stark. Now it was cold and depressing, and said some unflattering things about the mech who lived there.

Speaking of...

Jazz listened, but could make out no sign of his rescuer-slash-possible-kidnapper. He made his way through to the kitchen. This was a bit of a risk, helping himself to Prowl's fuel without being offered, but he needed the energon. He had to get as much as he could to heal as quickly as possible. For that, he was willing to risk Prowl’s wrath.

The kitchen was decorated like the rest of the apartment: in white. White walls, white floor tiling, a white table with two black chairs. The only decoration was a picture on the wall across from the dispenser; the Old Iaconian glyph for 'peace' drawn out in gold paint on black.

"Not much of an interior decorator," Jazz muttered to himself as he poured himself a cube of energon. 

He was a little stuck on the apartment, mentally.  He’d never been in a living space so empty. It didn’t seem like a home at all. Even the shabby little room Jazz had been renting above the brothel had some decorations. He’d had a music system, pictures, little knickknacks he’d picked up to brighten up his day-to-day.  

He wondered briefly if this was even really Prowl's apartment, or if he had just broken into some place for sale-- No. Suspicion was good;   _ that _  was a little too close to paranoia. But what sort of person could walk into an apartment like this and think “yes, this is home, I am happy and relaxed in this space”?

"Good morning."

Jazz jumped, slopping the energon over his hand.

"Sorry," Prowl said, having the good grace to look properly apologetic. "I didn't mean to sneak up on you. Let me get that."

Prowl took a step forward and Jazz automatically took a step back. If Prowl thought Jazz was going to stand there and let him lick it off, he had another thing coming. Nothing grossed Jazz out as much as being  _ licked _ .

They stared at each other. 

Slowly, Prowl extended a hand, reaching for a drawer. This time, when he took a step forward, Jazz let him. The other mech pulled a cleaning cloth out and handed it to Jazz, who took it and began to hurriedly scrub at the energon on his hand. 

Prowl opened his mouth to say something.

"Sorry," Jazz said. "I didn't hear you. When I came out, I mean. I'm not the kind of bot to go sneaking around people's homes, usually."

"I'm quiet," Prowl said.

"Bet that comes in handy on the job," Jazz said.

"I prefer to use it to startle my colleagues and frighten new recruits."

Jazz looked up. There was the faintest hint of a smile on Prowl’s lips.  

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was a joke.” 

“I never joke. It’s bad for my digestion.” 

Jazz smiled. Prowl was funny. Who would have guessed?

"How are you feeling?" the officer asked.

"Better.” 

"Do you mind if I take a look at your arm? I want to see how the patch is progressing."

Jazz silently held his arm out. Prowl placed his hands on it and leaned in to examine the wiring. Jazz waited for Prowl's fingers to slide to sensor nodes or trail down his arm. It didn't. Those hands remained strictly professional, touching only where necessary.

"It's not incorporating as fast as I'd like," Prowl said, "but the damage was extensive."

He straightened and met Jazz's gaze.

"I don't suppose you'd like to tell me who did this to you."

Jazz snorted.

"I  _ am _ a police officer," Prowl reminded him.

"Nobody cares what happens to people like me.” 

"I care. If there's someone out there who hurt you, he needs to be brought to justice.”

Justice. This confirmed Jazz’s previous assumption. Prowl believed in the system. Believed in justice, and probably honor. Definitely not a serial killer, almost certainly not aiming to trap Jazz as a personal interface mech. 

If Jazz could get an explanation for that locked cabinet, he might be able to actually relax around Prowl. 

"There's no justice for shareware, Prowl. You're a cop. You should know that. So what do you do for fun around here?"

“What?” 

“Fun. You know what fun is, right? What do you, Prowl of Tyger Pax, do to achieve it?” 

“You’re changing the subject.” 

“Yes,” Jazz said brightly. “I am.” 

Prowl’s optics narrowed. Jazz smiled widely. 

"I read, mostly,” Prowl said, giving up. “Or go over case files."

Bonded to the job. Three for three.

"What do you do when you have friends over?"

Prowl didn’t answer right away. Jazz could actually see the mech trying to think up some sort of answer or excuse. 

Mm-hmm. Exactly as Jazz had expected. No friends, or at least only work friends. Lonely, almost certainly did not admit that to himself, probably referred to himself as “independent”. 

Was that what Prowl had rescued him for? Not a pleasure bot but a companion, someone to talk to? That was a cushy gig; might even be worth sticking around for.

Jazz needed to say something before the silence went from “embarrassing” to “humiliating”.  

"Everybody has a hobby, Prowl; there’s gotta be  _ something. _ ” 

"Well..." Prowl hesitated. Jazz quirked two fingers in a "come on" gesture. 

"I don't suppose you enjoy strategy games?" 

Jazz detected a note of carefully hidden, desperate hope. It was enough to break your spark.

"I like all kinds of games. You know Iacon Twenty-two?"

Prowl's optics lit up.

 

The game board was made of polished steel. That was expensive. Jazz wondered why Prowl shelled out so much for one if he never got to play. 

Prowl's hands deftly placed the pieces on the board. Though it didn't show on his face, Jazz could tell Prowl was excited. It was all in the doorwings, really.

They settled on opposite sides of the kitchen table.

"Guests first," Prowl said.

For the first few minutes, they played in silence. As the game went on, they both began to relax, and soon conversation flowed. A new aspect of the game evolved -- for every piece played, a question had to be asked and answered.

Jazz turned a piece over and over in his hand, considering his choices.

"What made you want to be a police officer?"

He placed the piece down on the corner of the board. Prowl frowned at it.

"Individuals succeeding at the expense of others, or preying on those weaker than them have always frustrated me. I can't stand any sort of injustice. It was only logical to make this my career. Though that's not what I started out doing."

Prowl placed his piece, locking Jazz into one of three moves, none of which was tactically advantageous.

"Your accent tells me you're not from here. Where are you from originally?"

"Iacon. A lifetimetime ago.” He placed his piece. "You said that law enforcement wasn't what you started with. What did you start as?"

"A medic," Prowl said. Jazz looked up, startled. 

"So that's how you knew how to patch me up," Jazz said, running a hand over the welding marks.

"It comes in handy," Prowl said.

"It’s a pretty big leap from medic to cop."

Prowl shrugged.

"That was the life my mentor wanted for me. I was never happy with it, but I wanted to make him proud. Then about a month before I finished my education, I realized that if I went through with it I would be miserable for the rest of my life. I left, and joined the force."  

“What did your mentor think?” 

Prowl shook his head. 

“My turn first. You say you’re from Iacon, but your playstyle isn’t Iaconian. Where did you learn?” 

“Group of friends taught me how to play. They were from all over, and I picked up what I knew from them. I’m a quick learner.” He set his piece down. “ _ Now  _ tell me what your mentor thought.” 

"He disowned me."

Jazz jerked in his seat, knocking several pieces off the table. 

“ _ Primus _ .” He scrambled to gather them up. The knowledge was shocking enough, but the way Prowl had said it was even worse. As if it was a simple fact, as if Prowl didn’t  _ care _ . 

Prowl placed his piece. 

“So what do  _ you  _ do for fun?” 

“Really?” Jazz managed. “You’re just...just gonna drop that bomb on me and keep walkin’?” 

Prowl looked slightly puzzled. 

“I don’t follow.” 

“Your mentor  _ disowned _ you! For doing what you wanted to do!” It was a mentor’s responsibility to take a newspark and teach them the ways of the world, to help educate them, and if not love them then at least care for them and their happiness.  To have one reject their charge entirely was...was...

“Yes, he did. I’m sorry if that upsets you.” 

“Upsets me! He’s  _ your  _ mentor, shouldn’t it upset  _ you _ ?” 

Prowl shrugged his wings. 

“It was a long time ago. We were never particularly close. He was not particularly kind. I wasn’t surprised. In fact, I think that something would have made him disown me eventually, even if I had become a medic.” 

“But...But…” 

“I appreciate your concern,” Prowl said, “but it was a long time ago.” 

He smiled, but it was a small one, purely for the sake of putting Jazz at ease.

Jazz’s own mentor had died a long time ago. When it had happened, Jazz had mourned her bitterly. Now, though, he was sometimes glad that she was gone. At least now she would never see what he’d become. 

Why was he even concerned with what had happened in Prowl’s life? He barely trusted Prowl. He barely  _ knew  _ Prowl. He pushed the feelings away. It wasn’t his business. 

“You asked what I do for fun, right? I watch movies. I play games. I used to be a musician."  Jazz snapped his mouth shut. Why had he said that? What had possessed him to tell Prowl that? He  _ never _ talked about his old life, not ever. Was it because of what Prowl had said? 

"I almost played the lyre," Prowl said, casually, as if Jazz's hand wasn't so tight around his game piece his joints were starting to ache. Jazz looked up, startled out of his reverie.

"Almost?"

"It was a respectable instrument for the charge of a mentor from a respectable profession."

"But?" Jazz place his piece, stealing three of Prowl's and turning the game in his favor. Prowl frowned at the board.

"I wasn't against it at first, but it very quickly became evident that I do not have an ounce of musical talent in my frame. Every week, the tutor would come to the house and I'd sit there for an hour and get scolded for every wrong note. And they were all wrong. No matter how perfectly I put my fingers, no matter how hard I tried, it sounded horrible.

"But my mentor wouldn't let me stop. ‘I do not tolerate failure from my charges’, he said.”   

The more Jazz heard about this mech the more he hated him. 

"Then what happened?"

"One day things went very badly. The tutor told me that I wasn't trying hard enough, that I was lazy and disrespectful and would never get anywhere in life. As soon as he left I lost my temper and told my mentor I was quitting. He was giving me the lecture about failures, and I snapped and told him that I was quitting, and then I could be the first person in his charge to succeed at being a failure. And then I threw the lyre out the window."

Jazz was so delighted by the mental image that he almost missed Prowl moving a piece into an attack position.

"That's not all," Prowl said, with a smile of his own. "The tutor was standing right under the window.”

"  _ No _ ."

"Oh yes. Hit him right on the head. Knocked him out cold." 

Jazz couldn't remember the last time he laughed so hard.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See note below for content warning.

Red walls closed in all around him. A huge shadow blocked out the light. Claws dug into his arm.

“Say it again.”

Jazz’s throat was tight with fear, but he forced his voice to stay steady.

“I said I’m not going to service you anymore. Find someone new.”

“You’re turning me away. You are _rejecting_ me.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah. I am.”

The claws dug in tighter, piercing the plating. Jazz could not hide the hiss of pain.

“I am going to request you rethink this decision.”

“No. Let go of me. Plenty of bots here who’d be happy to pull your spike as much you—“

The slap was not unexpected but still ripped the words from his throat.

“This is unacceptable.”

“I don’t care what you think,” Jazz snarled. “I don’t care anymore. Get out and leave me al-”

Another slap. Out of the corner of his optics Jazz could see the other interface mechs peering out from doorways, optics wide with fright. No one would come to help him.

“I am going to give you one. Last. Chance.”

All the rage, the despair, the humiliation, welled up inside his fuel tank and up into the back of his throat. Jazz’s hand curled into a fist, and the world slowed down. He drew back his arm. He swung. His fist connected with Steelwing’s jaw with an immensely satisfying _crack_.

Steelwing stumbled back, releasing Jazz. For a moment, he stood immobile, stunned. The boiling anger was replaced by ice cold fear as Steelwing reached up to rub the spot where Jazz had hit him.

“That,” the noble said, “is the last mistake you will _ever_ make, shareware.”

Jazz backed away slowly as Steelwing advanced. Jazz hit the wall. Steelwing reached out. Steelwing dug his fingers into the gaps of the plating in Jazz’s arm. Steelwings claws dug into his fuel line. Steelwing _ripped_. Jazz screamed.

“I warned you, Jazz,” the noble said. “Jazz.”

“Jazz!”

Jazz jerked upright with a gasp. For a moment he stared uncomprehending at the white walls around him.

Right.

Prowl.

The rescue.

He was safe. Steelwing wasn’t here. Steelwing didn’t know where he was. He was sitting on Prowl’s couch in Prowl’s living room and he was safe. 

Prowl’s face was showing honest, open concern, which meant—

“You were talking in your sleep. Begging, actually. For help.”

“Just a nightmare,” he muttered. His limbs felt weak and watery. He checked the patch on his fuel line to make sure it was still there.

“Who is Steelwing?”

Jazz flinched.

“Nobody,” he said, knowing how ridiculous that sounded even as he said it.

“Is that who hurt you?” Prowl’s officer voice had arrived, ready to face the entire world in the name of justice for a mech he barely knew.

Jazz stood.

“No,” he lied. He moved to look out the window so he wouldn’t have to meet Prowl’s gaze.

“Jazz.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he snapped. There was a long, unreadable silence.

“I wish you would trust me,” Prowl said quietly. Jazz folded his arms over his chest. He wished he could trust Prowl too. He liked Prowl, more than he should for someone he’d met so soon.

But Jazz didn’t trust anyone, not anymore. He especially did not trust Prowl’s chances up against Steelwing.

“I can’t,” Jazz managed at last.

“You can’t trust me? Or you can’t tell me?”

Jazz didn’t answer, but he didn’t flinch when Prowl put a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m here, Jazz. Whenever you need me.”

With a gentle squeeze of Jazz’s shoulder, Prowl left the room. Jazz stayed where he was. After a moment, he raised his hand and placed it over the spot Prowl had touched, feeling the unusual warmth the mech had left behind. Jazz closed his optics and tried to calm the whirling of his spark, telling himself it was just leftover nerves from the nightmare.

 

“Jazz?”

Jazz looked up from the book he was pretending to read. Prowl leaned halfway into the door to the kitchen.

“What’s up?”

“I have to go run some errands. Would you like to come with me?”

Jazz immediately dropped the datapad – he wasn’t sure why he thought he’d find the biography of Praxius’ first city councilor interesting – and bounced to his feet.

“Yes, _please_ , let’s go.”

It was strange to be among the bustling crowd after almost a week and a half of isolation. He usually wasn't awake this time of day, and the city seemed very different in the sunlight. It was the same city and the same people, but somehow it was completely different, someplace brighter and happier. It was amazing how the time of day could affect people so much.

“Primus, it is so good to be out in the sunshine. I was about to start gnawing at the walls.”

“Yes, I got the impression,” Prowl said dryly. “I noticed you eyeing the sideboards and thought I should do something about it so I wouldn’t have to hire a contractor.”

“Yeah, yeah, you think you’re real funny.”

“I’m not funny. I’m clinically unfunny. Everyone says so.”

“Do they now?”

“Yes, the necessary subroutines never kicked in when I was being forged, leaving my humor processer undeveloped. Or I had a doctor surgically remove it. I forget which.”

 “Do people really say stuff like that you?”

“Not to my _face_ ,” Prowl said. “But you know how quiet I am. It’s hard not to overhear things.”

“And then you glide in and let them twist as they try to figure out whether or not you overheard them talking about you?”

“I would never do something so childish.”

 Jazz snickered, and Prowl smiled. Just a little. A tiny curve of his lips but it made Jazz’s spark skip. The more time Jazz spent with this mech, the more he was beginning to realize that there was a soft spot under all those dour expressions. He was going to make it his personal mission to uncover as much of it as he could.

Prowl halted in front of a storefront.

"I need to pick up some pieces to fix the energon filter." Prowl said. He hesitated.  "This might...take a while. The owner is another Praxian--"

"Aw, you have a friend!"

Prowl rolled his optics.

" He’s an acquaintance. He likes to talk about the news from back h-- from Praxus. You probably wouldn't enjoy it."

Jazz shrugged.

"I can entertain myself. Just comm me when you're done and I'll come back." Jazz tilted his head back to read the name of the store -- Bluestreak's Sundries. When he looked back down, Prowl was holding out a credit chit. "Uh..."

"In case you see something you like." Prowl's smile was slightly strained. Like he was afraid Jazz would refuse it. And Jazz should refuse it. This was the first step to letting Prowl think he could buy Jazz. The first step to being a bought mech. Jazz's fingers closed around the chit.

When he checked it, he immediately thrust it back at Prowl.

"I can't-- This is way too much, Prowl, I can't pay this back!"

"Consider it a gift," Prowl said. "From a friend."

And that made Jazz stop. Again that slightly desperate, hopeful look in Prowl's optics. Bonded to the job, socially awkward, lonely. Very, very lonely. This should have made Jazz feel uncomfortable, but instead, he was pleased that Prowl considered him a friend. Pleased, and glad he could make Prowl happy. He wanted Prowl to be happy.

Thrown off by his own thoughts, Jazz pulled the chit back, pressing it to his palm.

"Okay."

Prowl relaxed.

"Okay. I'll let you know when I'm done." Prowl disappeared inside the shop.

Jazz began to walk down the street, turning the chit over and over in his hand. This was more spending money than he'd had access to in a long time. What would he even spend it on? Usually his earnings went to fuel, but he didn't need to do that anymore.

He could get himself a treat. He hadn't had rust sticks in a while. Or he could buy himself a new sitar and--

No. No he couldn't.

He glanced down at himself and ran a hand over his chipped paint and the bright weldmarks. Pearl and iridescent blue-black. It was meant to be eye-catching, but it was also very telling.

His hand tightened around the chit. He might not be able to maintain it, once he was on his own again, but it would be nice, just for a little while, to look respectable. To look _good_.

Jazz picked up his pace, eagerly, intent on entering the first detailing shop he found. His map told him there was one five blocks away, but he’d only made it four when a hand darted out and grabbed his arm in a firm grip. Jazz automatically tried to jerk away, but the grip was strong.

“Hey,” said an oily voice. Jazz looked up and saw wings. His spark nearly went out. The fear faded, just enough for him to see red paint and stubby wings. Not Steelwing. Jazz tried to tug himself free again.

“Let go.”  

“What’s your hurry?” the mech said. “Me and my friends just wanted to talk.”

Jazz saw four other mechs hovering behind the one who had grabbed him. One of them waved. All of them had very…focused expressions.

“No thanks,” Jazz said.

“Aw, c’mon, that’s not nice. I can pay.”

“Do you think he does group rates?” someone asked, and the others laughed. Jazz nearly purged his tanks. Their words and their stares were like scraplets burrowing under his plating.

“Sorry,” Jazz said as firmly as he could, “you guys made a mistake. I’m not that kind of mech.”

The mech holding him laughed.

“With a paint job like that? What else _could_ you be? Now come on, come play with us. I’ll show you a real good time.”

Jazz wanted to fight back. He wanted to jam his thumb into this mech’s optic. He wanted to snap wings and rip plating. He wanted to say something cutting and witty and smart that would make these metalheaded morons running.

All he could bring himself to do, when the mech began to drag him into the alley, was pry himself free and run.

The world was normal again. Everyone was looking at him, judging him, sneering, or measuring him up and wondering how much he'd cost. He felt dirty and conspicuous.

He fled down the road, shoving past people and not bothering to respond to shouts of irritation. Humiliation choked him. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ to think he could escape that life so easily.

There was a little park off to one side of the street, and he ducked inside. He found a bench hidden behind a large crystal formation. He sat and vented hard, trying to cool down and stop the pain in his spark.

His hand tightened around the credit chit. 'A gift for a friend', what a load of scrap. Shareware was shareware, whether he was being paid to frag or entertain. Jazz threw it down and ground his heel on it until it snapped.

Jazz curled up tightly, wrapped his arms around himself, and tried to disappear.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some sexual harassment in this chapter. Nothing explicit, but unpleasant enough that I wanted to give a heads up.


	5. Chapter 5

Jazz wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there when Prowl commed him. For a moment, he considered ignoring the message. He thought about walking away and getting on the next train to Kaon to start again. He thought about what it would look like to Prowl -- like he’d taken the money and run.

Good. That would teach him. A cop shouldn’t be so naive.

_Consider it a gift from a friend._

He sent Prowl his coordinates.

 

It only took Prowl a few minutes to find him.

"This is pretty," Prowl said, looking around. "I don't think I even knew it was here. How did you find it?”

His foot hit the remains of the shattered credit chit.

“Is-- Jazz? Did something happen?”

"Nope, I’m fine, everything’s fine, park’s real cute, let’s go.” Jazz marched past Prowl, intent on getting back to the apartment as quickly as possible. Prowl grabbed his arm.

"Where are you going? What happened?"

"Get off me!" Jazz jerked himself free.

"Jazz, what’s going on?”

Jazz shoved Prowl back against the crystal, crashing their hips together.

“If you’re going to pay me, I should do my job, yeah? That’s what I’m good for; that’s _all_ I’m good for. So quit dancing around it and _do_ it already!” He kissed Prowl so hard the officer’s head slammed back against the crystal.

Prowl was frozen, then flailed, sputtered, and shoved Jazz away.

“Jazz, what—I’m not going to _sleep_ with you or, or hire you for _that_ —“

“And why the frag not?” Jazz snarled, nerves stretched to the breaking point. “Why else would you keep me around, if you don’t want to use me? Why else would you rescue me?”

“I would never, _ever_ take advantage of you, or anyone else in your situation!” Prowl snapped. “How can you even _say_ something like that? I know we haven’t known each other very long but surely you can tell by now I’m _not_ that sort of person!”

They glared at each other. Shame welled up and Jazz turned away first. Prowl was right. He’d never given any indication that he wanted that from Jazz. He’d never been anything but kind.

“Let’s just go,” he muttered.

This time, Prowl didn’t grab him. He just said, very softly, “please tell me what’s wrong.” It stopped Jazz in his tracks.

“I forgot what I was for a moment,” Jazz said, not turning around. “Some very nice mechs reminded me.”

“Who. Where. Did they hurt you?”

“I was going to get a new paint job, but they saw me. Saw what I was. They made an offer. I didn’t want it. It took them some convincing.”

“Jazz—“

“They didn’t do anything wrong!” Jazz exclaimed, finally turning around. “I’m a buymech! They wanted to buy! It’s all perfectly legal!”

“If they kept insisting when you said no, that’s harassment—“

Jazz let out a short, sharp, humorless laugh.

“Harassment? No one in the world would charge them for trying to proposition a buymech. Prowl, when are you going to _get_ it? No one cares what happens to people like me!”

“I care!” Prowl shouted. Jazz took a step back, startled by the outburst. He’d never seen Prowl so angry. He’d never seen Prowl so _anything_.

“Just because you interface for money does not make you less of a person! It does not make your problems less important! You seem to think that you deserve every bad thing that happens to you, and you _don’t_.”

Jazz stared at his feet, unsure of how to answer.

“You deserve to feel safe. You deserve to be able to walk down the street without being bothered. You deserve to be _happy_.”

When Jazz mustered the courage to look up, the intensity of Prowl’s gaze made his vents stutter.

“That’s why I gave you the money. I can tell things have been hard for you. I wanted you to, to have something nice, because you should have nice things, and I, I, I feel, I want to, I want you to be, I...care.” Prowl stumbled over his words and into embarrassed silence.

Jazz gave him a small, grateful smile.

“I bet you say that to all the prostitutes you rescue,” he joked. Prowl huffed a laugh.

“Very funny.”

“I don’t think I even said thank you,” Jazz said softly. “You saved my life and all I’ve done is wait for you to turn on me.”

“You don’t have to--”

“I do,” Jazz said firmly. “Thank you. For everything.”  

Prowl was flustered. It was a good look for him.

“Well...you’re welcome. I was happy to help.”

Jazz was struck by the almost overwhelming desire to put his arms around the other mech. He fought it down til the urge passed.

“You said you wanted a new paintjob, right?” Prowl asked. “Come on. I’ll take you to my usual place.”

He held out his hand. Jazz took it without hesitation.

 

Prowl’s usual place turned out to be one of the most high end body shops Jazz had ever seen. The inside was decorated in warm, dark colors; the windows were framed by curtains. Jazz wondered if they were organic. This place was certainly grand enough for it. The walls were lined with shelves displaying various colors and finishes. No prices were listed. He figured if you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it.

“You go _here_?”

“Yes.”

“Regularly?”

“Every time.”

“How rich _are_ you?”

“It’s a secret.”

“Why would that be a _secret_?”

“It helps me maintain my mysterious allure,” Prowl deadpanned. Jazz made a face at him and Prowl gave him an amused look of his own.

It was then that they both realized they were still holding hands. They hurriedly let go. Prowl reset his vocaliser and Jazz stared very hard at a set of paint samples.

A door opened and a tall, well-painted femme stepped out. When she saw Prowl she beamed and stepped forward, hand outstretched.

“Prowl! How wonderful to see you again. Did you need another touch up?”

‘Not today, Greenlight. My friend here was hoping for a new look.”

Primus bless her, Greenlight didn’t cycle an optic. She gave Jazz a genuine smile and shook his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Greenlight.”

“Jazz. Likewise,” he said, and meant it.

“You’re lucky. Our best mech is on staff today and he has an opening.”

“Sunstreaker never has openings,” Prowl said, surprised.

“There was an incident and his, ah, performance was cancelled. He said he had nothing better to do, so he came here.”

Prowl smiled at Jazz.

“She's right, you are lucky. Sunstreaker is the best in the business. He’s usually booked months in advance.”

Greenlight led them down a long hallway and gestured them into a room. It was well-lit, with a three-way mirror in one corner and a washrack in the other.

“I’ll go get Sunstreaker. Do you have any particular color or pattern in mind?”

“Black and white,” Jazz said. “The same as what I have now, just...classier.”

Greenlight smiled.

“I’ll let him know.”

They were alone for a few minutes, and Jazz spent most of it staring at his feet.

“Look about what I…tried to do—“

“I understand. I didn’t think about how this would look to you, or what the implications were. I should have done more to ensure you felt safe.”

“Not sure I’d have believed you.” Jazz muttered. Before Prowl could answer, the door opened and a tall, gleaming, golden mech stepped inside. Jazz had only a moment to appreciate the newcomer’s looks before the mech recoiled in horror.

“ _Ugh!_ Greenlight, what _abomination_ did you let in here?”

Jazz’s jaw dropped. Prowl didn’t even react.

“What did you do, roll around in crude oil and wait for it to dry?” Sunstreaker demanded.

“Sunstreaker takes bad paintjobs as a personal offence,” Prowl explained. Sunstreaker sniffed.

“They _are_ offensive. There’s no excuse for bad paint.” Sunstreaker shoved a binder into Jazz’s hands. “Pick out your color and your finish. I’m going to take all this, this... _this_ off of you.”

Prowl rolled his optics.

“I’ll be outside,” he said.

 

Back on the street, Jazz couldn’t stop looking at himself. He was mesmerized by the flash of his polish. He watched himself in every store window he passed.  The white was crisp and clean, and in sharp contrast to the deep, pure black. The light slid over the gloss like water. He couldn't get enough of it. He looked like  _himself._

The grin stayed in place until they turned a corner and he caught sight of the red fliers talking outside a store. The shame and embarrassment came flooding back. Suddenly the gorgeous paint seemed tacky. He was a fraud; a whore pretending to be a real person.

His change in mood did not escape Prowl. The police officer followed Jazz’s gaze. When he saw the fliers, his optics narrowed dangerously.

“They’re the ones, aren’t they?”  

“It doesn’t matter,” Jazz said weakly.

“It absolutely does.”

Prowl began to march towards the fliers. Jazz trailed behind him, not wanting to approach but unwilling to leave Prowl behind.

“Excuse me,” Prowl said politely. The fliers turned. Their leader caught sight of Jazz. His gaze flicked up and down, and he sneered. Jazz knew exactly what he was thinking. Here was Jazz’s next client, who’d dressed his playtoy up nice.

“Yeah?” the mech said.

“I think you should apologize to my friend.”

The mechs burst out laughing. Jazz shifted from foot to foot. They were outnumbered. These mechs were much larger than they were. Steelwing’s voice was whispering in the back of his mind.

“Is that so?” the leader said mockingly. “Even _if_ I did something worth apologizing for, which I _didn’t,_ I don’t apologize to shareware. So shove that up your tailpipe.”

Jazz wanted to tell Prowl to let it go. He just wanted to go back to the apartment where it was safe.

“I think you should reconsider.” Prowl took out his badge and held it up. The fliers froze.

“ _Scrap_ ,” someone muttered.

“Now, when I see five bots in the same colors, loitering around nice stores, my instinct says “gang”.”

The fliers looked at each other nervously.

“Screwtop--” one hissed.

“We didn’t do nothin’,” Screwtop said. “All you got is his word against ours.”

“Very true,” Prowl said calmly, putting his badge away. “But it would be enough to get you down to the station, where I can take a look at your files; and I’m _positive_ that they are full of things I _can_ arrest you for.”  

Screwtop swallowed hard.

“The thing is,” Prowl continued, level gaze not budging an inch, “I’m off duty at the moment. I’m not in the mood to have to end my vacation early to fill out a bunch of paperwork. So let’s make a deal.”

Suddenly Prowl’s voice was ice cold, his expression sharp steel.

“You will apologize to my friend. You will stay away from this part of town. Or I will come after you, and your friends, and your acquaintances, and everyone you know, love, and work with. Am I understood?”  

Jazz’s spark shivered with vindictive pleasure at the fear and panic in the flier’s eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m very sorry and I won’t ever do it again, I promise.”

The leader’s cronies nodded.

“Super sorry.”

“Yeah we were real afts.”

“It was wrong of us to be so disrespectful.”

“No hard feelings?”

Prowl turned to Jazz. For a moment, Jazz just stared back, before realizing the mech was waiting for him to deliberate.

“Oh, uh. Yeah. Apology accepted. Uh...You can go now?”  

The mechs ran off so fast, Jazz almost expected to see dust clouds.  Prowl turned back to him and said mildly, “shall we?”

Jazz blinked at him, too stunned to speak. Prowl began to amble down the street, as casually as if he’d only stopped to ask for the time. Jazz scurried after him.

“Wait wait wait, _what_ was that?”

“What was what?”

“You just threatened to arrest those five guys back there and made them _apologize_ to me!”

“...yes? I’m sorry, I’m not sure what the problem is.”

Neither was Jazz, if he was being honest with himself.

“ I just...never had anyone do something like that for me before.”

“What else are friends for?”

Jazz laughed softly.

“Prowler, you are really something else.”

They walked in silence for a few more blocks, before Prowl turned to him.

“Prowler?” the officer asked.

“Prowler. You like it?”

The mech’s smile was shy.

“Yes. I do.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chronic depression ruins everything! But we're back in business now. Short chapter today, and then we are back to our regularly scheduled Sunday updates.

“I still don’t get it. Modern art is just so... _ disorganized _ .” 

“You’re looking at it all wrong. It’s not trying to show you what the subject  _ looks  _ like, it’s showing what the subject  _ is _ .” 

“That makes no sense whatsoever.” 

“It’s about the greater context! Come on, Prowler, open your mind!” 

“I’m perfectly open-minded,” Prowl said, pausing to unlock the door. “I just refuse to accept any art style that gives me a headache.” 

Jazz rolled his eyes, in doing so spotted something in the upper corner of the doorframe. 

“Is that a camera?” 

Prowl glanced up. 

“Yes, it is.” 

“Do all the apartments here have those?” 

“No, I installed that personally.” 

“Why? You don’t trust the security here?” 

“No,” Prowl said, opening the door. His tone was flat and tense. Jazz thought he should let it go, but there was another camera in the corner of the front room.

“How many of those are in here?” And how had he never noticed them before.

Prowl’s doorwings hitched up in embarrassment. 

“A few. It’s not as extensive as it looks. The cameras only turn on when the sensor at the door is triggered.” 

“And what triggers the sensor at the door?” 

“Whenever someone enters the house when I’m not there,” Prowl said, not looking at Jazz in the least. 

If that was supposed to calm Jazz down, it was the most socially inept Prowl had ever been. 

“ _ Seriously _ ? I’ve seen  _ banks  _ with less security! Are you hiding government secrets in here?” he asked. “Primus, if this was Kaon maybe I’d understand but  _ Tyger Pax _ ?” 

“I like to be a careful.” 

“Careful! This is  _ careful _ ? I’d hate to see what you think is overkill! Do you think someone is going to come sliding under the door in the middle of the--”

“By the Allspark Jazz, would you  _ stop _ ?” 

Jazz pulled up short. Prowl had actually shouted. His doorwings were higher than Jazz had ever seen them, shivering with agitation. 

“It might seem excessive to you, but there have been plenty of instances to assure me that this level of protection is absolutely necessary!” 

“Well excuse me for worrying that the person I’m living with might have some sort of secret paranoia glitch!” 

“Who are  _ you  _ to judge  _ me _ for how I live my life?” 

Jazz’s spark stuttered in his chest in the worst way. His vocalizer froze up. He tried to speak, but couldn’t even close his mouth from where it had dropped open. Prowl glared at him and stalked away. 

They didn’t speak for the rest of the day. 

 

The next morning was filled with awkward, stilted silence. Breakfast was eaten separately. Prowl stayed in the living room. Jazz haunted the kitchen. 

_ Who are you to judge me for how I live my life?  _

That had stung worse than Jazz would have expected. It was an attitude he was well used to from the world. But not from Prowl. After all those days of insisting, all that big talk about justice and  _ you deserve nice things _ ... 

“Jazz.” 

Jazz glanced up at Prowl, then looked away. 

“Jazz, I’m sorry.”

That made Jazz glance up again. Prowl’s expression was the most open Jazz had ever seen it. He looked sad and upset and guilty. 

“People call me things all the time, they call me paranoid and cold and boring and I don’t mind because I don’t care but. But when you called me that I.” Prowl vented hard. “I care about what you think of me. I care more about your opinion of me than anyone else in my life and it. Hurt. The idea that you thought of me the same way everyone else does just...made me so angry. And I wanted to hurt you back.” 

Prowl paused, but Jazz couldn’t think of anything to say. 

“It was stupid,” the mech went on. “It was stupid and cruel and I didn’t mean it, I swear, Jazz. You’re my friend.” 

Part of Jazz said that he shouldn’t trust Prowl. It said that this was just a coverup, that Prowl was just as bad as everyone else Jazz had ever met. 

The rest of him saw the look in Prowl’s optics and knew better. 

“I shouldn’t have called you paranoid,” Jazz said. “After everything you’ve done for me, I’ve got no business fussing over how you do things. You’re a smart mech, Prowl. I know you’ve got your reasons. So I’m sorry too.”

Relief washed over Prowl’s face, making his doorwings sag. 

“So we cool?” Jazz asked.  

Prowl’s mouth curved up into a small but genuine smile. 

“We’re cool.” 

“Good. Bring it in.” 

Prowl’s expression melted into alarm. 

“What?” 

“Bring it in.” Jazz approached Prowl with his arms outstretched. Prowl took a step back. 

“What are you doing?” 

Jazz wrapped his arms around Prowl and pulled him into a hug. 

“What-- Jazz-” 

“Shhhh, we’re huggin it out, my mech.” 

“What? Jazz--” 

“Let it happen, Prowler.” 

“This is unnecessary.” 

“Oh it’s necessary. Gotta hug out all those bad vibes.” 

“But--” 

“You wanna be friends? Gotta get used to the hugging.” 

Prowl sighed. 

“I suppose I did ask for this.” 

“No takebacks.” 

“ _ Primus _ .” 

“Shhhh.” 


	7. Chapter 7

“Okay Prowl, it’s time to watch something new,” Jazz said. Prowl looked up from where he was sitting on the couch, reading a datapad.

“Excuse me?”

“I may have only known you for three weeks, but even I can tell you’re stuck in a rut. I feel it is my duty as your friend to help you get back out.”

“A rut? I’m not in a rut. What are you talking about?”

“All you do is watch documentaries or dramatizations, read nonfiction, and play strategy games, and you’ve only been doing that last one since I got here. You’re in a rut. You need something new.  _ Trust  _ me.”

Prowl put aside his datapad, frowning. It was amazing how quickly Jazz’s feelings about Prowl had changed. In the beginning, any sign of displeasure from Prowl would have sent Jazz scrambling to de-escalate the situation, worried for his safety. 

Now, he found Prowl’s irritation delightful.

“And what are you suggesting, exactly?”

Jazz held up the remote.

“Prowl, I am going to introduce you to…” Pause for dramatic effect as Jazz turned on the vid screen, already tuned to the correct channel. The opening theme and title card for  _ To Iacon, With Love _ began to play. “…trashy daytime holodramas.”

“ _ What _ .”

“They’re doing a series-long marathon for the debut of the fourth season finale. We are going to sit here and watch the whole thing.”

Prowl wrinkled his nose in distaste at the stills of mechs and femmes holding each other with dramatic, soul-searching looks on their faces.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.” Jazz placed a bowl of snacks on the table with a flourish and thumped down on the couch. “Don’t look so grumpy, you’ll enjoy it.”

“I don’t understand,” Prowl said, six hours later. “Why doesn’t Twistwind just  _ tell  _ Lightwing that it was a case of mistaken identity? He had no way of knowing he was actually interfacing with her spark twin. He was deceived. “

“Yeah but what if she doesn’t believe him?” Jazz asked, sipping his energon to hide the smile on his face.

“There’s no  _ reason  _ for her to not believe him! Twistwind has been nothing but loyal the entire time they’ve been together, while Lightbreaker has  _ consistently  _ done everything in her power to undermine Lightwing’s success and happiness! How can you enjoy this illogical  _ drivel _ ?” he demanded.

“You’re enjoying it too, my mech,” Jazz said.

“I am not!”

“You wouldn’t be so mad if you didn’t care,” Jazz pointed out. Prowl tried to argue, but couldn’t. He glared at Jazz, who only grinned. “Now shush, in this episode we get new clues about Spiral’s past.”

Prowl rolled his optics.

“We  _ always  _ get clues about Spiral’s past and they are never anything substantial enough to properly answer any of the questions about him.”

“Oh I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” Jazz said happily.

He most certainly would not be. Spiral’s past was the big reveal of season three’s finale, and it was one of the biggest letdowns of the series. Jazz couldn’t  _ wait _ . 

 

“Jazz. Jazz.” 

He was comfy. He didn’t want to get up just yet. 

“Mmmwhazzit?” 

“You missed the finale. I had to watch it by myself. It was horrible. I think parts of my processor died.” 

“You wuss. Why didn’t you just turn it off?” he asked, still not quite awake. 

“I couldn’t. I was trapped. I am still trapped. By you.” 

Jazz onlined his optics. He was leaning up against Prowl, feet tucked up on the couch, head on the other mech’s shoulder. He jerked upright. 

“Sorry! Sorry. Uh. Sorry.” Jazz reset his vocalizer. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” 

“I couldn’t bring myself to do it. You looked very...peaceful.” Prowl was very carefully not meeting Jazz’s optics. It didn’t make Jazz any less embarrassed. 

“So uh, what did I miss?” Jazz asked, desperate to change the subject. 

“Lightwing is in a coma and Lightbreaker stole her identity. Fairwind may have killed her mentor. Or she was hallucinating. It’s unclear. Oh, and a femme showed up claiming Rivet is her mentor, but Rivet has no memory of her.” 

“Aw damn, that sounds great.” Jazz stretched. 

“It was not. It was terrible. I hate this show.” 

“It’s okay. Maybe  _ Life of A Sailor _ will be more your speed. It’s about a femme living in a town on the Mercury Sea. We’ll start that one tomorrow.” 

Prowl groaned. 

“It’s a murder mystery,” Jazz wheedled. 

“...fine. I will watch  _ one  _ episode.” In a very different tone of voice he said “you should go to bed. It’s late.” 

“You take the bed tonight,” Jazz said. 

“No--” Prowl started.

“It’s not right,” Jazz interrupted. “I can’t keep kicking you out of your bed, not after--”  _ everything you’ve done for me _ “--letting me crash here for three weeks. I’m not even paying rent.” 

“You’re my guest,” Prowl protested. 

“And don’t you think, as the guest, I should get a say in where I sleep?” 

Prowl hesitated, two aspects of chivalry at war with each other. 

“I...suppose…” he said at last. 

“Great, glad we got that sorted.” Jazz put his hands on Prowl’s shoulders and steered him towards the bedroom. “Go. Sleep in your own bed.” 

“You’re  _ sure  _ you want to do this?” 

“Super sure.” 

“I really don’t mind--”

“Nope.” 

“It’s a comfortable couch--” 

“Great, I’ll get a good night’s sleep that way.” 

“I get up really early in the morning, I wouldn’t want to disturb you--” 

Jazz gave Prowl one final firm push into the bedroom. Prowl turned to look at him, expression worried. 

“I’ll be  _ fine _ . Don’t stress out, baby, it’s all good.” 

Prowl choked. 

“I-- Wh-- I--” 

Jazz winked and shut the door on Prowl’s flabbergasted expression. He laughed quietly to himself. He wasn’t just back to old sleep schedules and paint colors. He was back to old speech patterns too. 

He danced his way across the apartment back to the living room and flopped back onto the couch. He sighed happily. Life was good. Worry about the future later. For now, he could be himself again, in every way. 

It was an extremely comfortable couch. Jazz would have expected something with form over function, but between the couch and the bed, it was clear Prowl was not above a little luxury.  

Prowl was just full of surprises. Jazz looked forward to seeing more of them. 

  
  


_ Hand around his neck, claws tearing at his plating, Jazz couldn’t scream, nothing was coming out, energon filled his mouth, choking him -- _

Jazz jerked awake, flailed as he tried to fight off a mech who wasn’t there, and fell off the couch. He hit the floor with a crash. 

“Son of a…” Jazz groaned and rubbed his head. Would there ever be a night where he could recharge without Steelwing’s face looming out of the darkness? 

“Jazz!” Prowl appeared in the doorway. “Jazz are you alright? I heard-- What happened?” 

“Nothing. Just, uh, rolled off the couch.” 

Prowl frowned. 

“Another nightmare?” 

“No,” Jazz wanted to say, but a quiet “yeah” came out instead. Prowl walked over and offered his hand. Jazz took it and let Prowl pull him to his feet. 

“You’ve been having a lot of those.” 

Jazz didn’t answer. What was there to say?

“You didn’t have a nightmare when you fell asleep on me. Would you sleep better if we shared the bed?” 

When Jazz stared at him, Prowl hurried to add “Not  _ that  _ way. Just sleeping.” 

“What?” 

“Your virtue is safe with me,” Prowl elaborated, voice dry. Jazz snorted a laugh. 

“It never even crossed my mind,” Jazz said, and it was, astoundingly, true. “I guess it’s worth a shot.” 

 

“You know,” Jazz said conversationally, staring up at the ceiling, “if someone had told me last month that I’d be platonically sharing a bed with a cop, I would have said it was a very bad joke.” 

“If someone had told me last month, I think I would have believed it, but I’d have been very annoyed with myself.” 

“Wait, seriously?” 

“It sounds like the sort of thing I’d do.” 

Jazz stared at him in the dark. The light from the city just barely lit up Prowl’s face, illuminating his profile, but not enough for Jazz to make out his expression.

“You know, every time I think I’ve got you figured out, you say something like that and I’m surprised all over again.” 

Jazz did see Prowl’s lips curve up into a smile. 

“Most people say I’m a very boring, two dimensional individual,” he said.

“Well I’m not most people.” 

“That's true. I've never met anyone like you in my life." He turned and looked at Jazz. "You're a unique individual."   


Jazz’s spark skipped in his chest. For once, he was the flustered one. 

“Right. Well. Uh. Night.” 

“Goodnight, Jazz.” 

Jazz rolled over to face the window. 

_ Uh oh _ , he thought. 

 

Jazz practically bounced as he stepped into the kitchen the next morning. Prowl looked up from his datapad and smiled. 

“You look happy.” 

“Best night’s sleep I’ve had in years,” Jazz said. 

“Good. I’m glad.” 

“That was a genius idea, baby,” Jazz said. Prowl made the same choking noise he’d made the night before. “Something wrong?” 

“No, no! You’ve just...never called me that before.” 

“I call all my friends that,” Jazz said, innocently. It wasn’t even a lie. Jazz had once been a tremendous flirt. 

“I’m not used to, er, things like that. Or diminutives.” 

“Well you’re gonna have to, because that’s how I roll, Prowler.” 

The corner of Prowl’s mouth twitched up at the nickname. 

“I’ll do my best,” he said.

“Now let’s go,” Jazz said, putting down his empty cube and rifling through the cabinet for snacks. 

“Go? Go where?” 

“The living room. We’ve got a whole new show to marathon.” 

“I hoped you’d forgotten about that,” Prowl muttered darkly. 

“Nope!” He grabbed Prowl by the elbow and dragged him to the door. “March.” 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY BAD I posted the wrong chapter for .2 seconds but I fixed it!

“The patch is integrating quite well,” Prowl said. “I’d like to put a protective coating over it, if that’s alright.” 

Jazz shrugged.

"You’re the medic here."

"Yes. Yes I am." He walked into the bedroom. Jazz realized he was about to see what was in the mysterious locked cupboard, and followed eagerly. 

Prowl entered the combination, opened the doors, and Jazz took a big step back. It was full of surgical tools, all neatly arranged. Syringes, soldering irons, scalpels-

"Is that a  _ saw _ ?"

Prowl glanced at it.

"It came with the set," he said mildly. Jazz stared at him.

“Prowler, it is a really, really good thing you didn't show this to me earlier, because if I had seen this when I first got here?  I would have started running and never stopped. You do realize this makes you look like a serial killer, right?"

Prowl sighed, heavily.

"Why do you think I keep it locked?"

"That makes it even worse!” 

Jazz leaned over Prowl's shoulder and prodded a line of bottles filled with clear liquids, turning them to see their labels.

"So if you aren't a serial killer, what's all this stuff for?"

"It's for me, when I get injured on the job." Prowl slapped Jazz's hand away.

"Injured on-- Was  _ that _ what you meant when you said the bed had seen worse?" Jazz demanded. Prowl's door wings hitched up.

"Yes."

"Tell me the story right now."

"There's no story. I got shot. I came home. I tried to fix it myself. I made an enormous mess of everything."

"You tried to-- Prowl, you know they have hospitals for those sorts of things, right?"

"I told you, I trained to be a medic. I usually handle all of my injuries myself."

"Look, I get taking out your dings and dents, but  _ laser fire _ ?"

"It wasn't laser fire. That would have been easier to patch. It was a bullet: physical ammunition. Three straight into my left door wing."

"Three!" Jazz yelped. "And you just...pulled them all out yourself?"

Prowl made a noncommittal noise and opened a drawer, rifling through it.

"Prowl.   _ Prowl _ ."

"  _ Alright _ ," Prowl snapped, embarrassed. "It went very badly. I had to do it in a mirror, I couldn't risk giving myself an anesthetic, I passed out several times because I kept tearing sensor nodes. Eventually I had to do a weak patch job and walk myself to the hospital."

Jazz turned so he was facing Prowl and examined his wing. There, on the very edge of his wing, was a slightly raised section of plating.  

“That’s a big patch,” he said. 

"I did serious damage," Prowl said quietly. "I lost all sensation in the lower section of my door wing."

Jazz was at a loss for words. It was only when Prowl began to spread the protective mesh over the fuel line that Jazz managed to say “why ?"

"I don't like hospitals." Prowl's tone said that the conversation was over. Jazz ignored it.

“Tell me why.”

Prowl was silent.

“Friends tell each other things,” Jazz insisted. Prowl sighed, finished attaching the mesh, and sat down on the bed.

“Did you ever wonder why I work in Tyger Pax, instead of Praxus?”

“I never really thought about it.” Jazz sat down next to him.

“Well I used to. I was forged there. Grew up there. Trained to be a medic, quit, joined the Praxian police force. Then a few years ago, I discovered that my superior officer was taking bribes. Dropping cases, falsifying evidence, covering things up... I went looking for solid proof, and found more corrupt officers. The more I looked, the more I found. It went all the way up to the second in command of the head of the enforcers.”

“That was  _ you _ ?” Jazz said incredulously. The scandal had rocked the planet. Praxus prided itself on its low crime rate and the strength of its judicial system. 

“I got a medal,” Prowl said, mouth twitching in a humorless smile. “But there were…consequences. A lot of rich, powerful mechs were used to having the force in their pocket, and they didn’t take kindly to losing that. I got hurt on an assignment, when my partner should have been watching my back. When I was in the hospital, someone put something into the intravenous drip. It almost killed me.”

“And that’s why you have all the security cameras.”

“I’ll admit, it’s all made me a bit paranoid.”

“You know what they say, it’s not paranoid if people are really out to get you.” Jazz was aiming for humor, but Prowl just stared at his feet. 

“People I cared about were threatened. No one wanted to work with me. Some of them because they thought I’d betrayed the force, some of them because I’d arrested friends, some of them because they were afraid they’d be targeted for being too close to me. Internal affairs was always on my back, trying to catch me doing something they could arrest me for. My apartment was burned down. I lost everything I owned. At that point it seemed safer to just give up. I applied for a transfer, as far away as I could get.”

“Prowl-”  

“It wasn’t as if I had that many friends to begin with; I’m terrible at making friends,” Prowl said with a brittle smile. “I’ve been here for almost five years and -- you know that store I told you about, run by the other Praxian? I go because he’s the only person willing to talk to me for longer than five minutes about something that isn’t work.” 

The forced cheer in Prowl’s voice was turning manic. 

“It’s not really a surprise. I’m inherently unlikeable. I’m terrible at showing any sort of emotion, I’m not funny, I don’t know how to make small talk, I’m cold, I’m logical, I’m  _ boring _ \--” 

“Prowl--” 

“So that’s what I do! I work all the time because when I don’t work I have to come back to this stupid apartment I didn’t know how to decorate, and read books about people who actually went out and did things instead of sitting around in the dark wishing they knew how to  _ talk  _ to people--” 

“Prowl!” 

Prowl stopped. Jazz wished he’d thought of something to say. Finally he settled on: 

“You’re not cold.” 

“What?” 

“You were saying why people don’t like you. You’re not cold. And you’re not boring. You’re just quiet.” Jazz put his hand on Prowl’s, squeezing tightly. “I like you.” 

“You do?” 

“Yeah.” 

“...oh.” 

They smiled at each other, a little sappily. 

Jazz steeled himself. He didn’t want to ruin the moment, but if he was ever going to be able to tell Prowl, it was now. 

“Well since you were nice enough to share your tragic backstory, I may as well share mine,” he said airily. 

Prowl looked alarmed. 

“Jazz, it’s alright. You don’t have to--” 

“I want to,” Jazz said firmly. “I want you to know. Friends tell each other stuff, remember?” 

Prowl took Jazz’s hand in both of his. 

“Okay.” 

“You remember I told you I used to live in Iacon?” 

Prowl nodded. 

“I had a bar there. A real nice place; a little small, but popular.” He smiled at the memory. “I was a musician. Played every night. I wasn’t rich, but it was never about money. I just wanted to make something beautiful for people to enjoy.”

“What happened?” Prowl asked, voice barely more than a whisper. Jazz’s smile turned bitter.

“One day the police showed up with a warrant to search the place. Said they’d gotten a tip off about “illegal activities”. They found drugs in the basement – a lot of them. Berzerker Button, Nucleon Nail, circuit boosters, you name it, it was there. I swore they weren’t mine, but of course they didn’t believe me.

“My city advocate was a joke. He kept pushing me to confess, wouldn’t even try to help me clear my name. I sold the bar, my apartment, damn near everything I owned trying to keep myself out of jail. It didn’t work. They locked me up. By the time I got out…”

“It ruined your reputation.”

“No one would hire me. I was broke. I was desperate. I came out here and did the only thing I could. Nobody cares about where a buymech comes from.” Static blurred his vision as all the old emotions came flooding back. He shook it off.

“...and that’s why I sleep with people for money,” he said, trying desperately to throw a little humor into the situation. 

“I’m sorry,” Prowl said. Jazz shook his head. 

“No, it’s--”

“Don’t say it’s fine.” Prowl’s expression was firm. 

“...it sucks,” Jazz said, finally. His voice shook. “It sucks a lot.”

“And I’m sorry.” There was no pity in his gaze, only sorrow. Jazz turned away all the same. He startled when Prowl put an arm around his shoulders and squeezed.

Jazz didn’t pull away. He didn’t  _ want _ to pull away. He curled up against Prowl, head on his shoulder. 

“Sometime’s life is a real bitch,” Prowl said. The curse was so unexpected Jazz snorted a laugh. 

“It really really is.”  

Prowl rested his cheek against Jazz’s head. For a while they sat in comfortable silence, at least as comfortable as any silence could be after revelations that heavy. 

“I win, though,” Jazz said. 

“Win?” 

“The Misery Competition. I win. My life is way, way worse.” 

“I’ll let you have this one,” Prowl said, magnanimously. “Just this once.” 


	9. Chapter 9

“Stop it,” Jazz said, staring at himself in the mirror. “You knock this off  _ right  _ now. You know better.” 

He was in love with Prowl. He could feel it. The way his fans ran a little faster when they sat next to each other, the warm tingling that spread through his lines when Prowl smiled. 

And it was absolutely, positively, not allowed to happen. Jazz was a prostitute. Prowl was an officer of the law. Jazz would only ruin Prowl’s reputation, make him the laughingstock of the precinct. Sure, it was fine now, with Jazz staying with Prowl and wearing his shiny new paint, but when he was back to cheap polish and dents in his hips, what then? 

“Jazz?” 

“Just a sec!” Jazz called. “ _ Stop,”  _ he hissed to himself one last time. 

Prowl was standing in the foyer, mouth curved down in worry. 

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright on your own?” 

“I’m sure,” Jazz said, for the tenth time. “You said you wanted to go back to work.” 

“I do! I do. Okay. Here’s the spare key. The door locks automatically, so make sure to take it with you. I should be back from work by six. There’s energon in the kitchen. If you need anything you can just comm me--“

“Prowl! I’m not a sparkling. I’m a big bot, baby, I can handle myself. Now get out, go to work, make the world a safer place one bad guy at a time.”

“Alright, alright. Are you sure I didn’t forget anything?”

“I’m sure, baby, I’m sure.” 

Jazz was suddenly stuck with the urge to lean forward and kiss Prowl goodbye. He crushed it, hard and made himself grin casually. 

“Right. Okay. I’ll see you tonight.” Prowl hesitated, as though he was about to say something. The moment passed and he smiled at Jazz, and stepped out of the door. As he did so a thought occurred to Jazz. 

“Hey!” 

Prowl turned a little too quickly. 

“Yes?” 

“Be sure to get home in time for the next episode of  _ All My Newsparks _ .” 

Prowl groaned and rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t make that face at me. I know you love it.” 

“I do. And I hate it. You’ve ruined me.” 

Jazz cackled and shut the door. 

  
  


Jazz was settled on the couch, reading a datapad (an actual novel! Prowl had progressed), digging through a box of candy Prowl hadn’t hidden well enough. Honestly, he was doing his friend a favor. This stuff was terrible for your lines. 

A knock on the door made him look up. In all his time living with Prowl, there’d never been a single visitor. Another knock, this one slightly more impatient. Jazz grinned and stood, heading to open the door.

“Prowler, of all the people in the world to forget their key, you are the last mech I would ever—“

“Hello Jazz,” said Steelwing.

No.

No no no.

This wasn’t real. This was a nightmare. Jazz had fallen asleep on the couch again. He wasn’t backing away from the door. Steelwing wasn’t pushing open the door. He wasn’t closing it gently behind him. He wasn’t giving Jazz a cool, measured smile that did not reach his optics.

“How—“

“I had people looking, just in case. I have to say, I’m glad you’re alright. I would have been very disappointed to have killed you, especially over something so small.”

“I didn’t tell anyone,” Jazz heard himself say.  He hated the note of desperation in his voice.

“Of course you didn’t. Although we both know it wouldn’t have mattered if you had.”

Jazz hit a low bureau, knocking over the statuettes that were the few decorations Prowl had. Steelwing kept walking. When the noble lifted a hand Jazz flinched, but Steelwing only stroked his fingers over Jazz’s jaw. The touch made his plating crawl.

“I forgive you,” Steelwing murmured. The tender, affable tone slithered into Jazz’s audials and made his tank roil. “My offer stands, just like always.”

Jazz shuttered his optics, breathing hard.

“How many times do I have to tell you no?” he asked bitterly. Steelwing’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, fingers digging in tightly.

“Jazz,” the noble said sharply, his tone that of a teacher to a misbehaving student. “I am tired of having this argument with you. I am offering you a life of luxury, anything you have ever wanted—“

“And all I’ve gotta do is be your pet. Your slave,” Jazz spat. Steelwing slapped him, hard enough to make stars explode in Jazz’s vision.

“Don’t use such an ugly word,” the mech scolded. His claws left deep, painful gouges in Jazz’s shoulder plating. “I am not unreasonable. So long as you are obedient, I will give you plenty of freedom to come and go. Within reason, of course.”

Jazz shuddered.

“I would rather  _ die _ ,” he said. Steelwing’s free hand wrapped around his neck and squeezed. Jazz gagged as the energon in his lines backed up and his vocalizer was compressed.

“Do not think I cannot arrange for that. I would hate to do it; it would be a terrible waste of all the time and energy I’ve put into chasing after you.” The noble sighed. “You could have done this the easy way. All you had to do was accept my offer and none of this would have happened. I would have even let you keep your club.”

_ Let  _ him keep?

Steeljaw’s free hand grabbed Jazz’s arm and twisted it until the joint groaned in protest. Jazz’s cry of pain was choked by the hand around his throat. Jazz knew he should fight back. He  _ could  _ fight back. He’d done it before. Steelwing wasn’t that much bigger than him.

But he couldn’t. His entire body was frozen with fear. His processor was stuttering.

“Let go of my friend.”

Jazz’s knees went weak with relief.

“Prowl—“ he croaked, but Steeljaw’s hand tightened around his throat. With one quick step, the mech turned so that Jazz was between himself and Prowl. Jazz could see Prowl in the mirror. The mech’s expression was completely blank, but his blaster was pointing steadily at Steelwing. 

At Jazz. 

“Officer, this does not concern you.”

“It absolutely does. You invade my home, you attack my friend, I cannot  _ think  _ of a situation that would concern me more.” With every word, Prowl’s voice grew sharper and angrier.. Not even when he’d been addressing the gang that had harassed Jazz had he sounded so furious. 

Steelwing frowned, irritated. 

“Do you know who I am?”

“I don’t care who you are. Release him.  _ Now. _ ” 

“Or what? You’ll shoot me? I hope your aim is very good, officer.”

“It is.” 

“But you won’t risk it. Maybe you think we can stand here in this stalemate until I give up.” With a sudden wrench he twisted Jazz’s arm until the elbow joint nearly popped out of alignment. Jazz fought back a cry of pain. “I am only going to say this once more: leave. If you do not, you will suffer.”

“You are threatening an officer of the law. That’s a bad idea.”

Steelwing smiled condescendingly.

“I am untouchable. You, however, are not. If you continue to meddle in my  _ affairs _ ,” his claws dug into Jazz’s arm. “I will destroy you, just as I destroyed him.”

Jazz’s fuel lines went cold.

“What?” he whispered. Steelwing gave him a pitying look.

“Oh Jazz. Didn’t you ever wonder where the drugs in your bar came from? Who paid off your lawyer? The judge? The officers? If you had just taken my offer, if you hadn’t been so  _ difficult _ —“

Jazz’s knee shot up of its own accord, slamming into Steelwing’s interface equipment. The mech’s grip on Jazz went loose as he gasped and his knees buckled. Jazz grabbed a statuette off the bureau and swung, cracking Steelwing in the side of the helm. Steelwing cried out in pain, stumbling away and trying to regain his balance. Jazz was not done. He struck again. Steelwing fell to the ground.

Jazz landed on him, pinning him to the ground. The top of the statuette was pointed; Jazz rammed it into the noble’s wing and dragged, tearing the plating. The mech screamed in pain. 

“You  _ bastard _ !” Jazz yelled. He punched Steelwing. “You evil—“ Another punch. “Scheming! Conceited! Life! Ruining! Piece! Of--!”

A hand caught his fist.

“Jazz!”

Heaving for air, Jazz looked up at Prowl’s concerned face.

“He ruined my life,” Jazz croaked. He was shaking. He was disoriented. This felt even more unreal than when he’d seen Steelwing in the doorway. “That fragger ruined my life just because I wouldn’t....I wouldn’t.... “

“I know,” Prowl said. “But I’d rather you not kill him in my apartment.”

Jazz looked at Steelwing. The noble was unconscious, faceplate torn and bleeding. Wires sparked from the open wound in his wing. Energon dripped from his mouth. He was alive, but something in his internals was making a nasty grinding noise.

“He ruined my life,” Jazz said again. He let Prowl pull him to his feet. “And, and he’s gonna get away with it, nobody will believe me—“

“But they’ll believe me,” Prowl said. “And they’ll believe the recording that started the second he stepped foot in my apartment.”

“I love you.”

“Wh-“

Jazz grabbed Prowl back the back of the neck and kissed him, hard. Prowl dropped the cuffs and wrapped his arms around Jazz’s waist.

It was the single greatest moment of Jazz’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with me to the end! I'm so flattered by all the great responses I got to this rewrite, I adore each and every comment I've received. 
> 
> Now, you may notice that the epilogue at the end of the original Mech in Shining Armor is not here. Fear not! I wanted to expand that epilogue, and then it got so long I decided to make it it's own work! 
> 
> So watch this space, because I will soon post a sequel!
> 
> Also, I recently made a [ko-fi page](http://ko-fi.com/bigassmagnet)! Please consider checking it out :)


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